Étude in G Major
by CatS81
Summary: A melancholic Boyd studies the depths of his own futility...


**Disclaimer**: I don't own 'Waking the Dead' or any of its characters, the BBC has that honour – I'm just taking them out to play for a bit.

**Pairing**: Boyd/Grace.

**Content**: Angst.

**Rating**: T, for mild adult themes.

**Spoilers**: S9, 'Solidarity' – but only in the sense that it is set during the episode.

**A/N:** I have absolutely no idea where this came from…but it struck me when thinking about the S9 episode, 'Solidarity', that Boyd spends a lot of time observing Grace unnoticed during the proceedings. This is kind of my take on it. Oh, and the term 'étude' means 'study', usually a piece of music used as an exercise. As always, comments/criticisms warmly welcomed!

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><p>I can't take my eyes off her. I mean physically cannot tear my gaze away. I've been surreptitiously watching her for more than five minutes, her blissful ignorance of my attention completely intoxicating as she leafs, utterly absorbed, through the file atop her desk. This is far from a new activity for me…but never before have I found myself so powerless, so wholly incapable of reasserting my carefully held control. Perhaps it's this case, the revelations about her past that have had this effect on my perspective…or maybe everything is simply catching up to me after almost a decade of determined evasion.<p>

I feel my heart begin to pound against my ribcage as I watch her unconsciously finger the chunky necklace at her throat, her delicate features creasing in an expression of concentration, her head at a slight angle as her intelligent mind readily digests the information before her eyes. She is beyond beautiful, beyond stunning, beyond breath-taking. I silently turn the notion over and allow it to settle, forcing myself to examine it consciously for the first time in our acquaintance despite the pathetic, crippling fear beginning to snake into my gut, the sheen of anxiety pooling slickly against my skin. I inhale sharply, at once devastated and overwhelmed by the obliteration of the floodgates.

It is more than just physical, although at this moment I am thoroughly, helplessly captivated by the exquisitely expressive sapphire of her eyes, the smooth skin impressed by the inevitability of time, the tantalising curves of her body discreetly disguised beneath the stylish clothing. I know her. I know that she is almost certainly oblivious to her own allure and that fact merely intensifies the acute desire I am suddenly, achingly afflicted with. I want to stride into her office and possessively claim her mouth. I want to caress the inviting softness of her throat with my tongue. I want to push her against her desk, slip my fingers between her thighs and tease her until she begs me to end it. But I won't do any of those things. I can't.

It is more than just emotional, although at this moment I am exhaustively, fatally consumed by the fire that is searing across my chest, by the warmth infusing every synapse, every nerve-ending throughout my body. She is my anchor, my counterbalance, my salvation. She always has been, despite my own blindly obstinate shroud of denial. I want to stride into her office and possessively unburden my soul. I want to caress the inviting curve of her ear with a whispered confession. I want to push her against her desk, grip her firmly by the shoulders and tell her how fiercely, how desperately I am in love with her. But I won't do any of those things. I can't.

I am in love with her. I repeat the sentiment internally, allowing it to reverberate endlessly against the interior of my skull. The construct feels alien, unfamiliar as it searches for a foothold in my consciousness, as it hooks itself despairingly into the edges of my heart. I fear that it has been there always, biding its time, waiting for the merest chink in my armour of repression before staking its claim to my senses. The realisation is unbearably, inexorably painful, the raw futility tightening its grip about my throat, threatening to constrict my airway. I do not want this vulnerability. Yet I am without a doubt in love with her. And I have been foolishly, stubbornly blind.

The inevitable question follows…and for a brief, wild moment of recklessness I am sorely tempted to throw caution to the wind. Only I know damn well that I won't. We have known each other for far too long, have seen each other's demons laid bare far too often. We know the ugly truth of bitter regret, the ingrained scars of perpetual introspection. We suspect the reality of each other's intrinsic loneliness, the certainty of each other's black fragility. She deserves a future enriched with blazing optimism, with grounded stability. She deserves far more than I could ever hope to give her.

And so I reach out an invisible hand to the temptations lingering before my eyes, the siren call of elemental lust, of organic need, of soul-pervading love…and I grasp them firmly, their inertial resistance searing a chasm in my stomach as I force them back within my weary body, back into the self-imposed prison I have made for them. I lock the door and vanquish the key to the deep obsidian abyss. She is my anchor, my counterbalance, my salvation. But I will not acknowledge these truths again. And that will have to suffice.

FIN


End file.
